There’s been a lot of talk about nuclear weapons in the news lately. That nuclear weapons are the problem. You know, I grew up around nuclear weapons, and not once have I ever seen a nuclear weapon arm itself, load its payload into a ballistic missile, and fire itself at an unsuspecting city.

It takes two people to turn the little keys around their necks in two locks at the same time, open the protective covering, and push that little red button.

My friend Ali died two days ago in a hit and run in South Extension, New Delhi. It’s probably not quite right to say “my friend” the way I just did, because I hadn’t talked to him in many years, not counting fleeting Facebook interactions. He was a wonderful person, and had many people as his more current and better friends, who will probably shake their heads in disappointment at the way I’m claiming a piece of him. But, even before this week, it would have been wrong to say “former friend,” which would have suggested a falling out. There . . .

What? It’s the whispers behind your back that you got to the top because you’re a woman given special consideration in this age of affirmative action rather than because you’re good at what you do? WRONG.

And, don’t even think that it’s the culture of shameless self-promotion that . . .